


Savannah, We'll Take A Walk

by silverlining99



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:22:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlining99/pseuds/silverlining99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy goes home. Jim goes metaphorical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Savannah, We'll Take A Walk

**Author's Note:**

> 2010 km_anthology story, prompt: outdoors sex.

"It's hot," Jim complains, for what has to be the fiftieth time.

McCoy rolls his eyes for what has to be the *hundredth* and kicks a stone aside with his foot. "It's not hot; it's *humid*. And this is nothing. Stop whining."

Tugging his collar away from his neck, Jim groans up towards the sky. It's a hazy sort of overcast, just a blanket of grayish white that only seems to insulate the sunlight somehow getting through and amplify the brightness while hiding the source. "You mean it gets worse than this?" Jim sighs. "I'm melting, Bones."

"Yeah, into a bucket of tears, maybe." McCoy sighs and bumps Jim's shoulder with his to steer them both off the main road and down a well-trodden dirt path that cuts through an overgrown tangle of grass and weeds and brambles. "You're the one who wanted to come. I *told* you --"

"Moderate temperatures! You said moderate, I know you did."

"It was hotter than this in Atlanta!"

"Then why am I *melting*?" Before McCoy can stop him, Jim swipes a palm across his forehead and reaches out to smash his hand against McCoy's cheek. "See? You brought me here and I'm turning to liquid."

"Jim, you disgusting little --" McCoy breaks off with a groan at Jim's sly smile. "How? *How* did anyone decide it was a good idea to give you the slightest shred of authority over people when you can't even act like a damn adult most of the time?"

"I blew Admiral Barnett," Jim says absently. McCoy stops dead in his tracks and Jim just turns around, keeps walking backwards. "That was a joke, Bones. We there yet?"

McCoy jogs a few steps to catch up. "Just around the bend a little. You could try to relax and enjoy the scenery, you know."

"I am." Jim is, McCoy suspects, telling the truth despite his constant whining. He'd invited himself along to Georgia at the last minute, with a shrug and a blithe "my mom's off planet right now" as an excuse for not needing to be anywhere else during their last week of leave before the _Enterprise_ 's scheduled launch, and he's been, for the most part, nothing but appreciative and inquisitive.

There've been moments, though, more than a few of them, when McCoy has felt like Jim is studying him the same as he studies anything else, like he's just memorizing any detail he get about McCoy, about his life, his childhood, his ingrained habits.

He feels like Jim is looking for something, and has no idea what. That morning Jim had looked at him over the breakfast table, a smear of egg yolk on his lip, and suddenly said, "What was your favorite place growing up?"

McCoy had stared at him, startled, and answered without thinking, "It's in Savannah. I spent summers there when I was a kid."

And Jim had said, "okay, let's go," and here they are, high noon at the height of summer, the air thick with moisture and, McCoy can tell even from a distance, a storm building closer to the coast, slowly gearing up to blow through and relieve the damp heat. That, he thinks as their destination comes into view, should make Jim happy. "That's it," he says quietly.

Jim stops. "Awesome," he breathes. McCoy's not sure why he feels a release of tension at Jim's obvious approval. It's nothing but a field, lush and green in spots, sun-scorched in others, with a single, ancient live oak right in the center. The branches arch out in every direction, the lowest ones sweeping only briefly up before angling back towards the ground. Spanish moss drips down in thick, white-green tangles. "Bones, seriously?"

McCoy feels embarrassed for some reason. "My grandparents had a place about a mile up the main road," he mutters. "I'd walk down here most days and play on my own for hours. I just always liked it."

"Can't blame you." Jim grabs his hand and pulls him off the path, drags him through the grass until they're able to duck under the canopy of moss and leaves that creates a dense, almost oppressive level of shade. "Man, it's like a cave-- were you a tree climber? You were, weren't you?"

McCoy reaches out and trails one hand along a thick branch that passes at shoulder height. "What kid isn't?" He circles the trunk slowly until he finds the right spot. "There, see? It'd be too small now, but where the trunk splits there? Perfect space for me when I was ten or so."

Jim bounces on his toes, inexplicably excited. "Ever fall?"

"Broke my wrist," McCoy confirms. "Caught hell from Gram for climbing trees alone."

"Naughty little boy," Jim says. He ducks his head suddenly and scuffs one foot against the ground. "I wish I'd known you back then. You know, growing up."

Something in the tone of his voice makes McCoy pause. "What's the deal, Jim?" he demands slowly. "You've been acting strange, even for you."

"You said this was your favorite place," Jim says with a forced lightness, and sinks down to sit on the ground. "I was eager to get here."

"I'm not talking about just today. Why'd you come to Georgia at all? What's in this for you?"

Leaning back against the tree trunk, Jim stretches his legs out and squints up at McCoy. "Besides spending time with you?"

"*Yes*," McCoy says brusquely, though the implied compliment, the feeling behind it, makes something twist sharply behind his sternum.

Jim shrugs. "I wanted to see you swim."

McCoy scowls in confusion and drops to sit next to Jim. "We're not swimming, in case you hadn't noticed."

Jim snorts. "Speak for yourself. *I* happen to be drowning in my own sweat."

"*You* happen to be disgusting, have I mentioned that?"

"Repeatedly, and I know you love it so shut up. What I mean is, you're a duck."

McCoy glances over. Jim has his head tilted back against the tree, his neck stretched, his eyes closed. He looks relaxed and content, despite the sheen to his skin. "Have you been drinking enough water?" he demands, instead of giving in to the urge to lean in and drag his tongue along Jim's jaw.

Without opening his eyes, Jim grins. "Yes, *mom*. I'm not delirious, I'm making a metaphor."

"A *stupid* metaphor," McCoy grumbles under his breath.

Jim swats blindly at his leg. "A *brilliant* metaphor. Look, have you ever watched a duck walking? It *can*, it's normal for it just like flying or swimming, but...it looks a little weird."

"Jim," McCoy says, aggravated. "I have no idea what you're saying."

"What I'm saying is that I've only ever seen you out of your element." Jim finally opens his eyes and peers at McCoy, his eyes bright and clear. "You know, like a duck waddling around on his funny little duck feet. You do it, because you're *awesome* and can do anything, but... I just thought it would be cool to see you where you're most comfortable, for once."

"In the water," McCoy says slowly, caught in Jim's gaze, in processing everything he thinks Jim just said. He leans forward slowly and catches Jim's lips, feels Jim's smile curl under the pressure. "I don't waddle," he mutters as an afterthought.

"Metaphor, Bones," Jim reminds him with a laugh. He shifts, presses closer and drops his hand onto McCoy's leg. "But," he adds quietly, and drags his palm to cup McCoy's crotch firmly, "I bet you would if you tried to walk right now."

McCoy shifts instinctively to give Jim's hand more room to maneuver. "Jim," he says quietly, and then Jim cuts him off with his mouth, his tongue, with a long kiss paced to mirror the slow squeeze of his fingers on McCoy's growing erection. McCoy grips the back of Jim's neck, slick with perspiration, to keep him in close.

After a few lazy minutes, Jim swings one leg over McCoy's to straddle him. Opening McCoy's pants with deft fingers, he delves in and goes straight for his balls, massages lightly. "So I'm thinking -- if I'm doomed to being all sweaty and gross," he says with a leer, and licks his lips quickly as McCoy bucks up into his touch, "I think it should be for a good reason."

McCoy can barely breathe, all of a sudden. He secretly -- or not so, really; it's nothing he ever says but he knows Jim knows, knows Jim sees deeper into him than anyone else -- he loves Jim like this, happy and irreverent, horny and enthused and absolutely unabashed about any of it. They've fucked drunk and angry and stressed and scared; they've fucked because they can't believe they're still alive and because they aced their exams. They've spent more than a year having sex for any good reason they could come up with, and more than a few questionable ones.

And it's always good, but for McCoy nothing can ever quite top doing it just because they *want* to, because they're drawn to the taste of each other's mouths and the feel of each other's skin and the thrill of wringing pleasure out of each other.

He's nowhere near modest enough to pretend altruism, either. Being the focus of Jim's attentions and affections is a damn addictive thing, and McCoy is well aware that he's a goner.

"Jim," he complains when Jim draws back to peel McCoy's shirt up and over his head, even as he lets him, even as he grabs Jim's ass and pulls him closer, "we shouldn't, not here."

Jim rolls his hips in a slow grind, the denim of his jeans rough when it brushes McCoy's cock. He pinches McCoy's nipples, tugs at them. "I think we should. Right here."

"There are -- jesus. There are chiggers."

"Chiggers?" Jim snorts right in the middle of licking a long stripe up his neck. He wraps his hand firmly around McCoy's cock and strokes it slowly. "I'm thinking about giving you the blow job of your life and you're worrying about *chiggers*?"

McCoy growls and surges forward abruptly, knocks Jim on his back and kneels over him. "Fine. See if you like it when your ass is itching like crazy," he retorts, unbuttoning Jim's pants and tugging them down.

Jim lifts his hips to help and then sits up to strip off his shirt as McCoy works on freeing his legs. "I'm not worried," he says breezily. He falls back and makes a show of wiggling in the grass, his arms stretched over his head. His grin grows to shit-eating proportions. "You always take such *great* care of my ass, after all."

McCoy groans. He pushes Jim's legs apart, lowers his body between them, lines their cocks up. His pants are still uncomfortably high but he ignores them for the time being. "I should let you suffer this time. What do you think, Jim? You okay with wriggling around like you've got ants in your pants when you take command next week?" He laughs as Jim cranes his neck up and captures one nipple between eager teeth. "*Ah*, yeah, fuck. I'd pay to see that, you squirming in that damn chair--"

"Worth it," Jim gasps, shoving his hands down the back of McCoy's pants. "Fuck, Bones, I'll squirm all you want even *without* bites, just -- just don't tease, don't--"

McCoy groans and kisses Jim hard. It drives him crazy, the way Jim will go from zero to sixty and drag McCoy right along. He gathers Jim's wrists and pins them to the grass above Jim's head with one hand, wraps the other around both their cocks and begins working them both slowly. "I will tease," he grits out, "all I want."

Jim's breath stutters and his hips pump up helplessly. "Bones," he whines. "Bones, let me up, man, I want to touch you, I want--"

"What?" McCoy asks, his voice rough. He focuses on Jim's cock, on getting just the right twist to each stroke. "Go on, say it."

"Let me suck you," Jim says on a fast breath. "Let me, I want to."

"No." McCoy brings his hand up and rubs his thumb across Jim's lower lip before pushing two fingers deep into Jim's mouth. Jim cooperates perfectly, the slide of his tongue something sinful as he wets McCoy's fingers and looks up at him with eagerness in his eyes. The second McCoy pulls his hand back Jim draws one leg up and hugs his thigh to his chest, and his eyes roll back, lids fluttering, as McCoy presses slick fingers into him. "God, Jim."

Jim twists his arms free and fists himself, tugs hard and fast on his own cock. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he pants, and McCoy pumps his hand in a rhythm he knows will push Jim quickly past the point of no return. Ordinarily he'd want to take his time, drag things out as long as possible, but right then and there he just wants to hurry up and take the edge off so they can go back to where there's climate controls and a bed and something more than spit and desperation to work with in doing everything he wants to do to Jim.

Jim, whether from similar inclination or a simple, helpless need to come, and fast, seems right on board. He lets McCoy swat his hand away and take his cock in a firm grip. Practice makes perfect, McCoy thinks almost grimly, knowing exactly where Jim is most sensitive, knowing exactly which spots to apply pressure. "Bones," Jim gasps, and grits his teeth. It's just enough warning to let McCoy curl his hand over the head of Jim's cock and contain the mess as Jim comes, groaning through it.

For good purpose, too; Jim grins lazily once he relaxes and grabs McCoy's wrist, pulls his hand up to clean with slow licks. The sight of it, the feel of Jim's tongue scraping across his palm and between his fingers, makes the pressure tug sharply in McCoy's groin. He grips his own cock and jerks quickly, breath hissing through his teeth, until Jim abruptly sits up and stops him and curls in to take McCoy deep into his mouth. His throat relaxes easily, a trick McCoy knows he's worked hard to get the hang of. He most definitely appreciates it, as Jim's nose brushes his stomach and nuzzles almost playfully for a second before Jim eases back and works his tongue in a way that brings everything to a sudden, mind-blowing halt.

"Jim," McCoy sighs, once Jim has sucked him dry and licked him perfectly clean. Jim sits back and wipes the back of one hand across his mouth, smiles smugly. "Christ, kid, when we get back to Atlanta..."

Flopping back onto the grass, Jim stretches languorously. "Yeah?"

"Use your imagination. Go nuts. Whatever you come up with, I'm probably gonna make it happen." McCoy moves to sprawl next to Jim, feeling suddenly heavy and tired. "So much for innocent childhood memories."

"Eh, you've still got those," Jim points out. "Just...supplemented."

"Supplemented, right. Fine. Whatever." McCoy rolls his eyes and watches tiny slivers of light spike through the thick canopy above them. "So what's *your* favorite place?"

Jim pushes up onto one elbow and gazes down at him. "I don't think I've found it yet," he says simply. He leans in and presses his forehead to McCoy's. "But you know what? I feel like I'm finally getting close."


End file.
